


The Beheading Game

by romans



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romans/pseuds/romans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>green knight au where steve is faultless sir gawain and bucky is the limb-challenged green knight</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Challenge

One snowy Christmas, when the prayers had been made and the monks had been mollified, King Nicholas's court gathered to make merry for the season. Hogs roasted on spits in the kitchens and musicians toiled behind a screen at the end of the hall. Fresh rushes crunched underfoot, and the torches flared brightly in the winter gloom. The nobility, cosseted and well-fed, were bored. The entertainment (tumblers and acrobats, and a strange dancing little clown who called himself Sir Justin of the Hammer) was wearing thin. 

So when the great doors at the end of the hall were thrust open by a single man, clad in silver chain mail and a black doublet, with an axe on his back and a sword at his belt, there was an excited murmur of interest in the crowd. The mummers and acrobats fled, leaving the floor to the stranger. 

"Sir," said King Nicholas, "You are welcome to my hall on this Christmas day. Is there anything you request of us? And what is your name, sir?" 

The stranger let the doors slam behind him, and looked up at the King. One of his arms was encased in fine armor, with a red device on the shoulder. 

"I am the Winter Knight," he said. "And I have one very simple request. I think you will not find it difficult to fulfill." 

"Then ask," the King said. 

"If your knights be man enough, I challenge one of their number to cut off my head," the Winter Knight said. 

The knights present exchanged looks amongst themselves. 

"Of course," the Winter Knight continued, "I request the same privilege a year hence." 

Someone laughed, sharply. The courtiers whispered to each other, watching as the King took in the stranger's odd request. As far as challenges went, it was definitely unusual. 

The Knight shrugged, glancing around the court with a cool blue eye. "I understand if none of your knights are strong enough or man enough to fulfill my request. Tales of bravery are always exaggerated, especially by the time they reach the land where I live."

"Good sir-" the King said, sounding a little strained, "I'm sure you don't mean to mock my knights with this-" 

"I'll do it," cried Sir Steven of the Brook. He was young, and probably destined for sainthood. He already had one miracle under his belt, after all: not two years past, Saint Hilary of Poitiers had interceded on his behalf and transformed his sickly frame into a fair and pleasing form. Talk was (and there was talk) that he was a sure bet for finding the Sangreal. 

He was impulsive, yes, and quick to anger, but he was pure of heart. He was a good man. 

"If it please you, Sire," Sir Steven said, bowing to the King. The King cast his gaze upon Sir Steven's broad shoulders and youthful countenance, and looked again upon the Knight, who was standing patiently before them, metal arm shining, hair lank and long against his collar. 

"If you will," the King said, waving a hand at Sir Steven. He settled back onto his throne to watch with his one good eye. Lady Maria, sitting in her throne beside him, clasped her hands anxiously. 

The court braced itself, whispering and hissing behind hands, for an epic battle. They would be let down. Sir Steven drew his sword and slid his shield onto his left arm. 

The Winter Knight stood like he was made of stone. He made no move to oppose Sir Steven. 

Any other man might have faltered at that, but Steven raised his sword and swung, sanctified muscles rippling, at the Knight's exposed neck. The Knight's eyes flickered, strangely, with _satisfaction_ in the instant before the sword clove his head from his shoulders. The steel went through his neck and spine as smoothly as a knife through butter, and the Knight's head bounced onto the ground. 

The Knight's body remained standing where it had planted itself, and the head blinked up at Sir Steven from where it had landed at his feet. There was a moment of horrified silence, and then the court broke out in an uproar. Sir Steven stumbled backwards, sword still red with blood, and almost fell over completely when the Knight's body reached out one mailed hand and picked up its head by the hair. 

The Knight raised his head up to survey the horror-struck knights and ladies of King Nicholas's court. He was smiling. It was _awful_.

"Sir Steven of the Brook," the head said, "I will see you a year from now, at the Red Keep. If you are any true knight you will honor your end of our bargain." 

Sir Steven pressed his hand to his heart, and looked faint, but he said, "I will see you then, sir, and not a day later. I have no fear of your tricks, unkind as they are." 

"You are very brave, then," said the Knight. He fitted his head back onto his neck, ignoring the stares of the men and women around him, and pushed the doors open again. A chilly wind blew in, putting out the lamps and plunging the hall into a dour half-darkness. 

When the doors slammed behind their strange visitor, Sir Steven turned to King Nicholas with a pale face. 

"You have a year," said Lady Maria. "I'm sure we can think of something."

"My Lady," Sir Steven said, "would that there were a way out of this. But I cannot shirk my promise. I plan to go to him."

The King was resting his chin in his hand. 

"Sir Steven," he said, "you're too damned noble for your own good."

Noble, headstrong, foolish, dead. That was Sir Steven for you, through and through.


	2. A Pledge in Jest

A year passes very quickly when you're slated for death. Sir Steven toiled and tarried through the rest of the winter and the next summer, and rode in the stands as ferociously as ever, but as the days grew shorter and Christmas grew closer, it was clear to everyone that the Winter Knight was weighing heavily on his mind. 

His heart wasn't in it, not any more. Who could blame him? 

A week before Christmas day, he said his farewells to his fellow knights. Sir Tony clapped him on the shoulder with one armor-clad hand, standing stiffly and awkwardly at his side. Sir Tony was terrible with emotions, but Steven understood his jokes and grimaces for what they were. Sir Bruce, mild as a mouse when he was out of the field (but, oh, terrifying on it), gave him his well-wishes and a relic of Saint Jude to see him on his way. Sir Samuel, his closest companion, gifted him with a new saddle and tack, and a cloak to keep him warm on his travels. 

"There's no shame in changing your mind," he said. "You were tricked, Steve. It wasn't a fair bargain."

He had said it a hundred times before, and, as he had before, Sir Steven only smiled at him fondly. 

"I made a promise," he said, "And I must keep it. I have to go to him."

Sir Clint offered him a bladder of fine wine, but Steven told him to save it for his companions. He wanted a clear head for the road ahead. 

Lady Maria sent a ribbon from her hair, a token to carry with him into danger. 

The King bade him a stern farewell, and gave Steven his blessing, and even accompanied him to the great gates of the palace to see him off. 

*

When Steven had traveled for two days along winding winding mountain roads and over broad, ice-flecked rivers, with no one but his horse for company, he came upon a tower on a hill. He had never heard tell of it before, but even as he picked his weary way up to the gates, they were flung open. 

"Sir Knight!" a voice called, "You must be weary of traveling in this weather! Come in, break bread with my master, take some ale." 

When Steven reached the gate, he found himself face to face with a short, round little man who was finely arrayed in a red cloak. The man smiled at him. 

"I am called Zola, Sir," he said, "and I am Seneschal at this estate. I saw you coming down the road and couldn't leave you out there to freeze. Let me take your horse, Sir. My master would hate the thought of you traveling alone in this weather. And so close to Christmas! Where are you going to?" 

Steven slid off of his horse, glancing around the open yard of the castle. He felt warmer already, out of the cutting winds that had driven slivers of ice into every nook and cranny of his clothing. 

"I am bound for the Red Keep," he said. The man's eyes widened and the smile dropped off of his face. 

"The Red Keep?" he said. "There's no such thing, Sir. Someone has sent you on a fool's errand." 

"No such thing?" Steven asked. 

"Well- that is- there was a Red Keep many years ago," the little man said. He scratched his head. "It's nothing but rubble now," he added, "about ten miles north of here."

"Well, then," Sir Steven said to him, "that is where I must go."

"But stay at least one night," the Seneschal said, taking the reins of his horse. "Sleep in a warm bed." 

Steven smiled at the strange little man. One night couldn't hurt, and he suspected that it would be one of his last on earth; a little pleasure couldn't harm him now. "I thank you kindly," he said. "And I will throw myself upon your hospitality for a night." 

Zola beamed at him.

"Good!" he said, and then, "you must go in and meet Lord Buchanan. Now-" he touched Steven's arm, gently- "you must not pay any heed to his jests. He is very quick to lay wagers, so take care of what you say. But he will treat you fairly."

"Thank you again," said Sir Steven, "I'll bear that in mind." 

 

The Great Hall of the Keep wasn't as great or as beautiful as the court that King Nicholas kept, but it was warm and lively, full of laughter and welcoming faces. Steven made his way to the front of the Hall, where Lord Buchanan sat on a crude throne heaped with furs. Steve stared at him, surprised at how young he appeared. He had expected a potbellied grandfather, jovial and bearded, to be commanding so fine a keep, but Lord Buchanan was a youth, and a handsome one at that. His dark hair curled over his forehead and his eyes were bright blue, and fringed with lashes like a girl's. When he put his goblet down, his mouth was wide and plush, and stained red with wine. He smiled at Steven. 

"Welcome to my hall," he said, beckoning Steven closer to him. "You look to be a knight by your cloak and sword, and half frozen by the way you're shaking. May I ask who graces us with his presence this eventide?" 

"I am Sir Steven of King Nicholas's court, and much indebted to your hospitality, my Lord," said Steven, bowing politely. Lord Buchanan chuckled at that, grinning, and Steven felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment. 

"Forgive me," Lord Buchanan said, standing up from his seat. "I've had too much to drink and I was... surprised that someone from King Nicholas's court would come here. And you were so _polite_!" A ringed hand grasped Steven by the chin, and he found his face turned up for inspection. 

"I hope you find my hospitality to be adequate," Lord Buchanan said. "I am no king. But I can offer you a warm bed." He smiled again. His lips were very close, and Steven found his gaze drawn to them almost against his will. 

They parted over another smile, and Lord Buchanan laughed again. He released Steven's chin, still giggling, and waved his hand at a passing servant. 

"A drink," he said, and the man scurried to obey. Buchanan turned his gaze back to Steven. 

"I cannot offer you the entertainment or riches that King Nicholas has at his court, but perhaps I can find a way to liven up your stay," he said. His eyes brightened. "We can give each other gifts!" 

"Your Lordship?" Steven asked, trying to understand what Buchanan was getting at. Buchanan stumbled backwards until he found his throne, and slumped into it. Steven noticed, for the first time, the woman who sat beside him. She was slender and fair, and her hair was as red as a roe's coat. She smiled at him gently, eyes lingering on his face. Steven felt himself blushing again. A servant pressed a goblet into his hand, filled to the brim with blood-red wine. 

"We'll make a pledge," Lord Buchanan said. "I'm going out hunting tomorrow, and the day after that, and on Christmas eve. I will make a gift to you of whatever I catch in the woods for whatever you receive in the castle." 

Steven smiled in spite of himself. "That seems like a strange offer," he said. 

"But it can do no harm," the Lord said. He raised his goblet in a toast, and Steven raised his own, mouth quirked with amusement. 

"I feel like I cannot help being the winner in this game," Sir Steven said. 

Lord Buchanan only smiled with his red, red lips, and toasted Steven with his goblet.


	3. A Kiss for a Buck

Steven woke with a start, shoved his quilts down where they had crept up over his head during the night, and blinked confusedly at the light pouring in the windows of his room. The curtains around his bed had been pulled back on one side, and a woman was perched on the edge of his mattress, hips cocked, arm braced perilously close to his thigh. 

"What?" Sir Steven said, faintly. 

The Red Lady smiled at him. 

"Good morning, Sir Knight," she said. 

Steven squinted at her, and tugged his blanket at little closer. 

"I woke this morning to find my bed cold and my husband gone," the Lady said. "They left at first light."

"Should you be in here?" Sir Steven asked. The lady laughed, teeth flashing in the half-light around the bed. 

"My husband bid me to keep you well, Sir," she said. She smiled again, and Steven blushed. She leaned towards him, and her hand slid over the top of his thigh. He jumped a little, and averted his gaze from the curve of her breasts under her gown. 

"It is not seemly for you to be in here," he said. 

"I know," the Lady said. Her hand squeezed. "But I am only doing as my Lord bid me, Sir Steven. I wouldn't want you to feel neglected."

"Oh- well-" Steven said, taking a steadying breath, "I certainly don't feel neglected." 

She laughed again, and her hand stroked the line of his leg, gentle though the quilt. He squirmed away from her touch, trying to ignore his quickening loins, and thought desperately of Saint Hilary of Poitiers, of Lord Buchanan's trusting face, red with wine in the warm firelight- 

"My husband had been cold of late, sir, and you are so fair that I would have your company," the Lady said. Her hand moved to his other leg, and she shifted onto the bed, skirts rucking up, and settled on his lap.

"Oh God-" Sir Steven moaned. 

"Call me Natasha," the Lady said. 

Steven's hands had found their way to her slender waist, solid and warm to the touch, and he tugged her forward almost involuntarily. She was so small-

Her mouth was soft and warm when she kissed him, her hands curving around his neck and pulling him down to her lips. He let her little tongue slip past his teeth, pulled her body up against his own, felt the soft roundness of her breasts, and then jerked away from her, recalling himself.

"You dishonor us both!" he said. 

He shoved the Lady away and buried his hands in the covers, fighting the urge to draw her back to him. She studied him for a moment, lip caught in her teeth, and then rolled off of the bed. 

"And you dishonor your Lord," Steven added, "You do him wrongly." 

She shrugged, shaking her skirts out. 

"He doesn't need to know," Natasha said. "I won't tell if you won't, Sir Knight." 

"Please go," Steven said. "Before someone sees you." 

She gave him another smile, eyes lingering hotly on his bare chest, and turned to go. 

"Remember," she said, pausing at the door, "Lord Buchanan need never know of our... time together." 

And then she was gone. Steven collapsed back against the pillows, gritted his teeth, and tried to think holy thoughts. 

 

He would have remained in his chamber the entire day, humiliated and shamefaced, but one of Zola's men came to his door, bidding him to come down to the main hall. 

"His Lordship is back from his hunt," the man said, "and he would have your company, Sir." 

And so Sir Steven dressed himself and went down to join the hunting party. The men were still damp from the rain, mud-splattered and reeking of sweat and blood, and all in high spirits. 

"Sir Steven!" Lord Buchanan cried out, when he saw Steven standing in the doorway, "I have brought you a gift!" 

He gestured to the men behind him, beaming, and they hefted a magnificent buck on their shoulders. Blood was matted in its red coat, and the big, dark eyes seemed to stare at Steven balefully. 

"Thank you kindly, my Lord," Steven said. Buchanan, tugging a glove off with his teeth, gave Steven half a smile. 

"Go hang it up," Buchanan said to his men, tucking his gloves into his belt, and they turned to leave the hall, the buck hanging heavily in their arms. Blood splattered the rushes at their feet. 

"And now, what is my gift?" Buchanan asked Steven. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, and his eyes gleamed brightly in the rushlights. Steven felt blood rush to his own face. 

"You're blushing like a maiden," Buchanan said, smirking. "Well? Let me have it. What have you found today?" 

Steven looked down at his feet, and then back at Buchanan. He had only received one thing today, shameful as it was-

"Only this-" he said, and, before he lost his nerve, he strode forward and pressed a kiss to Buchanan's chapped lips. 

Shouts and jeers rang out in the hall, and Buchanan's hand landed heavily on Steven's shoulder. He tugged Steven a little closer, deepening the kiss, so that his stubble rasped against Steven's skin, and then released him. 

They stared at each other for a moment, wide-eyed. 

"Is that all you found today?" Buchanan asked. His hand was still on Steven's shoulder, and the weight was so distracting that Steven forgot to speak for a moment. 

"All?" he repeated, gaze fixed on Buchanan's face.

"Where did you find such a sweet gift?" Lord Buchanan asked. 

"I cannot say," Sir Steven said. Buchanan's hand dropped off of his shoulder. "I beg you, sir, let it go."

"Not willingly," Buchanan said, gazing sloe-eyed at Steven's mouth, and Steven licked his lips. 

"But since you're my guest," Buchanan said, "I'll let it pass. Come on, let's go find a drink. There must be some ale somewhere, hm? I'll tell you about the hunt." 

Steven blinked, and nodded, and followed Lord Buchanan numbly. He couldn't stop thinking about the dry press of Buchanan's lips against his own, about the heavy hand on his shoulder, pulling him in. He stared at the broad slope of Buchanan's shoulders, so different from his wife's lithe body, and wondered what he had gotten into, when he had taken Lord Buchanan up on his wager. His gut tightened at the thought of Natasha's soft hands, of Buchanan's broad smile- and then he remembered the Winter Knight, who was waiting somewhere with a sharpened axe, and all thought of fleshly pleasures fled from his mind, as if he had been doused with ice water.

At least his last days on Earth were shaping up to be very interesting indeed.


	4. Praying does no one any good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well hopefully it's not another two years for the rest of this

Sir Steven slept lightly that night. The household had barely settled when the door to his chamber opened. Lady Natasha slipped inside, a candle lighting her way, and Sir Steven scrambled out of his bed when he saw her.

"My lady," he said, shivering in the night air, "what brings you to my chamber at this hour? Does your Lord bid you to fetch me?"

Natasha smiled at him. "I came to see you again, Sir Steven," she said. Steven stepped back, meaning to put a chair between himself and the red Lady, and stumbled over his shield in the dark. Natasha gasped when he fell, and rushed to his side.

"Sir Steven!" she said, kneeling beside him. "Are you injured?"

"I would feel better, my lady, knowing you were safe in your chamber," Steven said.

"And I will be, Sir Steven," she said, "if you let me tuck you safely into your bed."

Natasha held out a hand to help him up. "Please forgive me for startling you," she said, "I meant no ill will."

He took her hand and let her pull him to his feet. She was surprisingly strong, for such a small lady.

"Now," she said, "show me where you are hurt, Sir Steven, and I will attend to you."

"I'm fine, really," Steven said, as she tugged him towards his bed. She bid him sit on the mattress and held the candle to his face, and looked at him closely. Her eyes were very dark and her lips were very red.

"One kiss," Natasha said, eyes glittering in the candlelight, "and I will bid you good-night."

"I cannot," Steven said. "It would be unkind to Lord Buchanan."

"I'll put out the light," Natasha said, "and we can pretend it never happened."

She blew out the candle, plunging his room into darkness. All he could hear was the sound of their breathing. Her hand, soft and perfumed, drifted up to his cheek.

"My Lord is not unpleasant to look upon," she said, breathing the words into the darkness between them. Her thumb dragged along his lip, and then he felt the press of her soft mouth upon his own. He made a soft sound when she pulled away, and thought he heard her laugh.

"But you are fairer yet, Sir Steven. I would leave him and all of his gold, if you asked me," she said. "Take me wherever it is you are going."

"No-" Steven said. She kissed him again, and he let her. She tasted of cloves and sweet wine. She kissed his cheek, then, and his neck. When her teeth scraped against his skin, he startled, and pushed her away.

"Milady," he said, holding her at an arm's length, "you shame your lord and you shame me. Please, leave me now."

"If you so wish it," she said, and he listened as she left his room in a rustle of silken skirts.

The next morning, Steven hied himself directly to the little chapel that was attached to the keep. It was drafty and plain, lit only by dim candles and furnished with rough wooden pews, but it was the best refuge he could find.

He prayed all day, prostrated himself before the plain altar, and hoped that he would find the strength and honor to be a good guest for the rest of his stay. The hours passed slowly in the chapel, marked only by the changing light on the walls and the sinking candles on the walls. The Winter Knight weighed heavy on Steven's soul, and he hardly noticed the passing time, or the cold, or the hunger that growled in his guts.

He would have remained there a full day and a night, and seen Christmas Eve in the company of the saints and the Holy Ghost, but the doors suddenly burst open just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Lord Buchanan was standing in the doors, arrayed in his fur-lined cloak and his hunting leathers, and in his left hand he held a massive boar's head. It dripped blood on the stone floor of the chapel and stared blankly at the altar.

It was monstrous.

"Sir Steven!" he said. "You've started Christmas early, my friend, and very soberly."

"I apologise, Lord Buchanan," Steven said, startled. "I did not mean to shun your company. Did you hunt today?"

"I did," Buchanan said. "And this is your gift." He hefted the huge dead head, and didn't seem to notice how Steven blanched at the sight.

"I have--" Steven faltered, thinking of the kisses Natasha had given him in the dark.

"You have a gift for me?" Buchanan said, lightly. He smiled, and let the doors fall closed behind him.

"I do," Steven said.

Lord Buchanan stalked forward, the boar's head swinging and dripping in his hand.

"More of the same?" he asked, when he reached Sir Steven.

"Lord Buchanan-" Steven said, flushing bright red. Buchanan took Steven's face in his free hand and leaned in until Steven could feel Buchanan's warm breath ghosting across his lips.

"Milord," Steven murmured, faltering. Buchanan waited patiently, and after a moment Steven leaned forward to close the gap between them. 

The first kiss was chaste, but it quickly turned more heated. Steven opened his mouth, letting Lord Buchanan cup his face in both hands, and melted under the other man’s attentions. 

“Wait-” he said, after a moment, and he pulled back to smear a kiss on Buchanan’s cheek, and then dipped down to press another one to Buchanan’s neck. Lord Buchanan shoved him up against a wall, grunting, and recaptured Steven’s mouth again. His leg slipped between Steven’s, and Sir Steven groaned at the pressure. 

When Lord Buchanan abruptly pulled back, red-cheeked and panting, Steven was left bereft. 

“Wait-” he said, reaching out for Lord Buchanan. 

“More than that?” Buchanan said, wryly, and Sir Steven suddenly remembered where he was. He dropped his hands and slumped back against the cold stone of the chapel wall. 

“No,” he said, raggedly. 

It was only a game, he reminded himself, watching as Lord Buchanan strode out of the chapel. He took a little satisfaction in the fact that Buchanan’s stride was shakier than usual. 

It was only when he looked down at the boar’s head, still bleeding sluggishly into the rushes, that he realized-- his face was smeared with blood from Buchanan’s hands. 

He would lock his door come nighfall, he decided, and stay up praying for guidance and courage. 

After all, he had only one more day before he was to meet the Winter Knight.


End file.
